When Words Escape
by chezchuckles
Summary: COMPLETE. All the ways Beckett could say 'I love you too' without saying a word.
1. Chapter 1

When Words Escape

* * *

><p>And the heart is hard to translate,<br>It has a language all its own  
>It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, in prayers and proclamations,<br>In the grand deeds of great men, and the smallest of gestures,  
>In short shallow gasps.<p>

-All This and Heaven Too, Florence + the Machine

* * *

><p>She came by the loft with crime scene photos. They set up in his office and spent the late hours amassing details, the early hours being ridiculous. When it was too far gone and the sky was tending towards more grey than black, he drained the last of the decaf he'd made and leaned back in the couch.<p>

He fell asleep; she didn't wake him. Just gathered everything up again in silence and quiet, letting the night drop away as the darkling dawn brushed timid color across the city. She stole his yellow legal pad with all their notes and his doodles, stuffed it under her arm as she walked out.

She locked the loft with the spare key, tucked it into her pocket on the elevator ride down. She kept the file and the notepad pressed against her chest and watched the numbers go backwards, then yawned as she stepped out into the lobby.

She made it to the curb without thinking and then her phone buzzed and she slid her long, cold finger against the screen to unlock it, reading the text.

_Don't be stupid; come back upstairs._

And so she did.

* * *

><p>They sacked out on the couch; no one was left in the loft to surprise them in a few hours, or be surprised, so he stretched out his legs in front of him, feet on the coffee table, and she settled next to him.<p>

She yawned again and curled her hand up against her cheek to keep from drooling. He cupped the back of her skull with a hand too tender, just for a moment, like a good-night kiss, and then he dropped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, hand falling away.

She watched him a moment longer, then laid her head back down against the cushion. She drew her feet up a little, used her toes to keep the blanket tucked around her legs, let her eyes close.

Sleep well.

She might have said it, she might have only wished to say it.

* * *

><p>Early morning body drop. Her hands were chilled to the bone as the rain drizzled outside the car; the heater hadn't kicked in yet. She sat in front of his building, waiting for him to come out. She rubbed at the spot along her ribs, the scar too tight, and winced as her nail caught her skin.<p>

The door opened, bringing with it a rush of cold air. He slammed it quickly shut after him and shivered, bringing his fingers up to the vents.

She dropped her hand to the cupholders and lifted his coffee out, handing it over to him.

He raised an eyebrow but tasted it, a grin cracking his face as he sipped.

She quirked her lips in reply and put the car in drive.

It was the first time she'd gotten him coffee.

Since he'd managed to think like a real cop, she figured she could think like a real writer. Or at least Castle.

* * *

><p>She sighed and turned back to the bullpen, shutting the interrogation room door behind her. The uniform outside the door nodded to her and she gave him that terse nod back, then walked towards the murder board.<p>

He stood as she approached, his face carefully blank but his eyes giving it all away. His sigh seemed to echo hers, his hand out as if he might touch her. She dropped to the desktop and stared at the board.

"He confessed?"

She nodded, felt the hitch in her chest as she breathed, the way her lungs wanted to gasp instead. She bowed her head for a second, closed her eyes against it, then stiffened her spine. When she looked up, he was already carefully dismantling the board, the evidence box open on her desk.

She didn't move to help.

She watched as the photograph of the boy's body disappeared into the box, all the involved players - mother, uncle, father, teacher, the student - those photos went inside the box as well. Usually she shouldered the burden alone, put the case notes and photos to rest in the box, symbolically adding her own stress, worry, sadness in there as well.

It worked. It was how she dealt. But he needed this more than she did. He needed it. And so she gave it to him.

She drank her coffee slowly and let him take the time he needed to put it all away.

* * *

><p>Remy's was dark and quiet; the rain had returned.<p>

Streaking outside the glass, it made patterns on her skin, her arms looked warped with shadows. She shivered and turned her back on the view of coldness and drizzle, pulled a french fry from his plate and dipped it in his ketchup.

He smirked at her but didn't say anything. He took another bite of his hamburger and she licked the salt from her fingers, tried to avoid looking out the window.

She hated winter cold. Winter itself might be all right if it weren't for the way the wind sawed down into her bones, the way the air itself froze in her lungs, made getting out of bed in the mornings a punishment.

She shivered and took another fry, liking the warmth. Her salad was long gone; she was debating ordering a plate of fries for herself when Castle nudged over his plate and nodded at it.

"Want half?"

She grinned and shrugged at him. Half? She wanted all of them.

"Come on. Salad's not enough for you. We'll get you your own."

She sighed, but he was signalling the waitress. The woman came over with a question on her face and he smiled, gesturing towards the fries.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes on him, berating him silently.

"She wants some fries too. Can we get another order?"

Their server disappeared with the additional request and reappeared moments later with a huge plate of fries.

He grabbed the glass bottle of ketchup and shook it, then waited while it oozed out and settled into a gap in the fries, down to the plate. She watched him prepare it, watched his wide palm and the long fingers, wondered what they looked like flying across the keyboard. Why had she never stopped to watch him write?

"Here you go."

He capped the bottle and slid it back towards the window, using it to prop up the menus.

She glanced down at the plate of fries, inhaled the scent of oil and potato and seasoning, crispy and tender and heavenly.

She heard him chuckle and opened her eyes to see him regarding her.

"Dig in," he grinned.

She took three in her hand and dipped them lightly in the ketchup, then shoved them into her mouth gracelessly.

She wasn't starving; it was comfort food. Still. She hummed and chewed, licking her fingers, wiping ketchup from her chin with the back of her hand.

He was smiling at her as if pleased with himself.

* * *

><p>She wasn't happy about it, but he hadn't left her alone. He'd followed her here. Whatever.<p>

She stepped up to the line, set her shoulders in the Weaver stance, narrowed her eyes at the target, and pulled the trigger.

Again. Again. Center of mass. Just as it should be.

To her right, she could sense him setting up, checking the clip, adjusting his stance. When he fired, she flinched and missed center of mass by a hair. Damn it.

She'd been coming off-hours to the range solely for this reason, and somehow he knew. She didn't know how he knew, but here he was, proving she wasn't all right. Wasn't fine. No matter how many therapy sessions.

She squared her shoulders and took aim again, centering herself, breathing in and out slowly, counting her breaths. She fired again on the out, watched the dead-on shot. Aimed-

He fired and she jerked so badly that she couldn't even pull the trigger.

Damn it.

She set down her piece and clenched her fists, breathing through it. Only he would figure it out, only he would push it-

"Here," he said softly and slid into the box with her, the weapon carefully held. He handled guns better than she expected, every time.

"Stop," she ground out.

"Here." He put her piece back in her hand and raised her arm, his body behind hers, surrounding her. She blinked and turned her head back to the target. When her arm steadied, he backed away, took up his stance right beside her, two hands on the grip.

"What are you-"

He fired and she twitched, one eye closing, heart pounding.

She caught her breath.

"You've got this. No hesitation. Fire it. Now."

She glanced at him, surprise drifting down like snowflakes, light and cold. "What?"

"Fire. On your mark."

Indignation flared in her, set her heart burning. She looked back to the target; he'd shot her target. She narrowed her eyes and gripped the weapon with two hands, prepared herself-

He fired and she fired right after him, gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached. But she hit center of mass, shredding the already punched hole.

"Again," he demanded, and his body was so close that his hip brushed hers.

She fired before he did, heard - as if from far away - the echo of his own shot in the small box.

"Empty your clip," he said. "Now. Don't stop. You've got this."

He fired at her target; she tasted metal in her mouth, like blood, but she fired cleanly, mostly calmly, felt her control assert itself and take over. The duet of bullets.

She emptied her clip even as he did, felt the stress and edginess melting out of her like snow. She breathed again. For maybe the first time since she'd been shot in the chest, she felt her lungs working without having to think about the in and out of it.

She put her service weapon down and called for the target. He put his own borrowed weapon next to hers, took off his eye protection to look at her. She did the same, her mouth open to say something, but there weren't words.

She didn't know how to say it.

He took the target down and folded it up without looking at it, slipped it into his back pocket.

"Let's go. I think you've got it."

He discharged his clip and carried the pieces back along the corridor to the range master. After a moment, she did the same and followed him, the pain in her chest dissolving.

* * *

><p>She brought him coffee again, handed it over when he got in the car. No hurry; he was earlier than she'd expected and the body drop was close. She waited for him to take a sip and smiled.<p>

"Sorry it's so early."

"Pitfalls of the job," he murmured, popping the top off and blowing on his coffee. "Perils of following you down."

Her heart stumbled.

"There. Down there."

She wasn't fooled.

She glanced out the window and traced a line in the condensation that had already developed from the side vent blowing heat across her cheek, steaming the window.

When he opened his mouth and spoke, she never knew what he meant anymore. What she often heard sounded like another language dubbed over his voice, a language she half-knew and feared she'd forgotten in the three months she'd spent alone, a language she was meant to know but couldn't grasp any longer. She understood pieces, felt the meaning sifting down into her. Nothing she could articulate back.

She put the car in gear and drove in silence because anything she might say would be wrong.

* * *

><p>She knelt over the body and studied the way the man's hand was twisted under him. Lanie pointed out the bruising and Esposito rehashed his notes, both of them pointedly not looking at each other. She sighed and wished Ryan might say something a little naive, a little stupid, and break the tension.<p>

She used the end of her pen to move aside the man's jacket, nodded to Esposito who immediately wrapped his hand in an evidence baggy and grabbed what looked like airline tickets from the man's inside pocket.

She stood and regarded the room, her eyes finding him through the open doorway as he perused the man's shelves. She came up behind him and he handed her back her coffee. She sipped at it and watched his finger trail the spines.

"Lots of travel guides."

"Hm." He turned to look at her; she found his eyes at the same time. "Oh. Hi."

She smirked and shook her head at the childlike tone in his voice. "Hi. What're you doing in here? Dead guy's back there."

"I'm tired of dead people."

She laughed, thinking it a joke, and then sobered at the look in his eyes. "Okay."

"I might. . .know him."

"You what?" She jerked her head back to the dead guy.

"I might. I don't know. Familiar, you know? Could be nothing."

She let out a small sound and grabbed his elbow. "Maybe you should wait outside?"

"No. It's okay." He gave a shrug, but he didn't look like himself. Something off in his eyes.

She reached out and carefully clasped his hand, squeezing tight, before letting go and heading back to the dead guy. He didn't follow.

* * *

><p>She took the drink from him and sipped it slowly. The Old Haunt was crowded and he was working behind the bar, filling orders as they came in. She drifted away at first, looking for a table, then came back as if drawn.<p>

She watched the amber liquid slosh in the bottle as he poured, the dim lights making the alcohol glow. She sipped her drink and let the crowd press her down to one end.

After a few minutes, he came back to her, leaning against the bar on his elbows, his hand reaching for her glass and checking the level - half full still - before settling in. She took her drink back but laid it on the bar so she could face him.

"Need some help back there?"

"Called a guy. He'll be here in ten to relieve me."

"Still. You look slammed."

He grinned softly. "Yeah. Good, huh?"

She quirked her lips and glanced around. "It *is* Friday night."

He nodded as if conceding the point and lifted his head as he the other bartender called to him. "Ah. Be right back."

"Go."

She finished her drink and snagged an empty spot at a two-person booth in the back, sliding into the bench seat in relief. She tilted her head back and cradled her empty glass against the ragged feeling in her chest where the scar pulsed.

It had, at least, stopped being so tight in the mornings. Instead it felt thick with blood, as if growing larger. It wasn't, but the cold glass felt good.

A hand brushed across her shoulder and she sat up, smiling at him. "Your guy here?"

He nodded and sat down across from her. The booth was a tight fit and his legs framed hers under the table. She felt him shift, but there was no escape. She reached under the table and touched his kneecap; he stopped, giving her an apologetic look.

She shrugged, sat back in the booth, and put her glass on the table. Her knees shifted a little further towards him. Unintentionally. She didn't try to sit up.

"Drink was good?"

She nodded. He'd made up his own concoction; she was his guinea pig.

He didn't keep at it, just watched her for a second, then reached for her glass. "More?"

She shook her head. Alcohol made her drowsy, and a little anchorless, and she wanted to hold on to this feeling instead. Whatever it was. Whatever might be the consequences.

She wanted to touch his knee again but she kept her hands on the table.

"Want something to eat?"

"No. I'm good."

He nodded and watched her still, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. She didn't have anything else. This was it.

His legs closed around hers, squeezing, and she let her eyes study his face. His knees against her thighs, he leaned forward, hunched over so that his hands could touch. She breathed in easily, out again, watched his face as he brushed his fingers over her knees.

"You look tired."

She felt the way his touch traveled up her thighs and settled in her belly. She found herself sliding down in the seat, pushing her knees towards him. His thumbs dug into the tops of her thighs, his fingers feathering against the backs of her legs.

"Not so tired," she said, her chest aching with something entirely different now.

She expected him to grin, but he didn't. Only cupped the back of her knees and watched her for a moment longer, then released her, sitting back himself.

She found she was disappointed, and didn't know what to do with that.


	2. Chapter 2

And the words are all escaping me  
>And coming back all damaged.<br>And I would put them back in poetry  
>if I only knew how -<br>but I can't seem to understand it.

-"All This and Heaven Too" Florence + the Machine

* * *

><p>He found her at home with a bottle of red open on the counter and half of it gone. Beautiful and tired, her cheeks pink and her hair again half-curling along her face. He wanted to touch her hair but he sat down at the table with her instead and had a few sips of the glass she poured him.<p>

She slid her fingers over the pages he'd brought, nodding to him, agreeing maybe or just impressed. They'd abandoned the memorial fundraiser sometime last spring, when her mother's case seemed to coallesce into a juggernaut, she unable to step aside and he unwilling to bring the fundraiser up again.

Tonight he wanted it to ease her endlessly working mind.

And so he brought it out again, asked for the connection back. She allowed it, even though her place was lit softly by a single lamp, and the shadows were deep, and he knew, knew, too much was in his eyes.

She focused on the plans, the proposed attendees, the profiles of various spaces they could rent. He watched her fingertips smooth against the edge of the notepad, certain she'd get a papercut, hurt herself. She added a few suggestions to the list and moved on. Her fingers came out unscathed.

He wanted to slide his hand to the back of her neck and feel the weight of her hair, the soft curling tendrils under his fingers, the warmth of her skin.

She got up and refilled her glass, brought the wine back to the table, topped his off. He didn't touch his again, but she sat down closer to him, bringing her chair in so that their knees touched under the table.

Lately, it seemed knees were fair game.

* * *

><p>She took chase.<p>

He watched her dash after the suspect, her body lithe and lean, elbows and arms working with knees and feet. He took off after them both, breathing fast in cool night air, stretching his stride to at least keep her in sight.

She stumbled in her heels and went down - subway grate - he leaped over her and kept going, eyes on the suspect, blood rushing through his thighs, up into his lungs for more.

"North on Amsterdam," he yelled back, taking the right hand turn onto the avenue mere moments after their suspect.

He caught up at a crosswalk, tackled the guy around the midsection, brought them both down hard, half in traffic, half on the sidewalk. His lungs seared with every breath, but the guy's face, mashed into the curb, breathed blood intead. Broken nose, a few scattered teeth. One under his knee, digging.

She came up behind him moments later, her heels loud and regular on the pavement, slapped the handcuffs tight around the guy and hauled him up.

She gave him a look, part surprise and part pride - for him? in him? - and shoved the guy down to the curb, making him sit with his head between his knees until the bus arrived.

They stood behind the suspect, close, and she closed her fingers over his. He felt the scrapes on her palm, the way her hand twitched when he inadvertently brushed it.

But this was what she'd chosen.

So he'd run after her. He wouldn't pause when she went down; he'd go after the guy regardless.

This seemed to be the only thing she wanted from him. It was, at least, one thing he could give.

He was only now beginning to discover the cost.

* * *

><p>The crime scene was painted in red and blue but already the forensics guys were setting up lights to rid the alley of any darkness. Sharp-angled shadows played havoc with his perspective. The vanishing point kept shifting as she moved.<p>

She crouched over the victim; he held the coffee and took a step back.

Another blood-soaked body. This time knife wounds, which eased the vice around his guts infinitesimally.

Last week had been a shooting victim. He had nonchalantly studied the man's bookshelf instead.

He handed her back her coffee and watched her glance over her shoulder. Right. Knife wounds in an alley. Either he or she would be slightly off, no matter what case came her way; even strangulations had their issues. This was life now.

She took her time putting the coffee to her lips, and drank deep, then quirked an eyebrow at him in surprise.

"Shake things up," he explained and turned for the mouth of the alley, and the street beyond, trusting that she'd follow.

"I'm not a fan of pumpkin. Apple spice next time you need to shake things up."

He turned his head and saw she knew exactly what she was saying. There was teasing in her voice, but truth in her eyes.

He made a note of it, even though he didn't understand why.

And wasn't it all about motive?

* * *

><p>He studied her stance across from him, her handling of the gun, studied the man at his left, his gun much more personal.<p>

His money would always be on her, but cracks were widening in her facade.

The barrel against his throat burned. Recently fired. His own fault for stopping like a rookie at the first fall of a body, stunned immobile. She'd been on the retreat; they were nearly clear.

Now they were not.

She wouldn't meet his eyes, and that was fine, he understood. He wished he thought it was a good thing. He thought, instead, she was coming apart.

"You got this," he murmured, felt the air carry his words to her, ineffectually.

She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together, a bloodless line. Her hair was scraped back off her face and made her cheekbones too severe.

He would survive. Of course he would. He bet on her, all the way.

Even as her hand tremored once and dissipated, ripples in a lake when the wind kicked up, he bet on her.

"You got this."

She had it. Her voice was cold steel as she negotiated; her body taut and capable. He was the only one who could possibly see and know what it meant - these things he saw - so it was only ever his secret to know.

She had it and -

she had it only by mere breaths, threads, fingertips.

The moment the barrel of the gun shifted, lessened, he was swiftly forcing his elbow into the man's nose, shoving up and back for the bones to slide into the brain, and reaching up with his other hand to push the barrel away from his face.

No shot was fired.

He ducked and rolled, and her shot rang out true.

The body collapsed next to him; he kicked the gun out of the dead man's hand.

She talked to IAB alone.

* * *

><p>She came bearing gifts.<p>

He opened his door and took the wine, took her hand to bring her inside. She let his mother embrace her, made hesitant conversation with his daughter while sliding out of her heels. She stood in his kitchen in bare feet and sipped at her glass as Alexis finished throwing together the salad. She finished her wine and offered to set the table, and he let her.

He watched her place silverware delicately alongside the plates, her long fingers stroking the handle of a spoon, cradling the fork, her thumb against the edge of the knife. She gathered up their various glasses of wine, one of water, set them out in the same places as before. Refilled everyone's.

His mother put everything into serving dishes and handed them to her; she placed them on the table with equal deliberation.

Sitting around the dining room table, he felt her knee against his, the press of her shin, then the soft curl of her toes around his socked foot.

* * *

><p>He sat in his chair beside her while she worked and ducked to avoid Gates's line of sight, his chin nearly to her desk. When Gates had stepped into the elevator, he let out a long breath that made her smile into her hand, the pen against her cheek.<p>

"You don't have to stay. It's just paperwork."

"This is how sad and pathetic my life has become. I'm sticking around for paperwork - nothing better to do." And the paperwork was his fault. The shooting.

She cast him a look but resumed her data entry; he checked her coffee mug - still mostly full but cold.

He took it back to the breakroom, at ease now that Gates had gone for her weekly meeting at 1PP, started up the espresso machine.

He jumped when he felt her hand at his waist; she slid behind him and stopped at his side.

"Just regular; no foam needed."

"Too late."

She shrugged but she had her bottom lip between her teeth. "I didn't mean for you-"

"No problem. I'll drink it. Regular-?" He pulled the coffee pot from the burner - the terrible stuff - but she stayed his hand.

"No. That's. . .stupid. I'd rather have the espresso. It's just-"

She released her lip, released his hand. He put the pot back on the burner and noticed that the hair on his arms was standing up, that the air in the room shimmered with faint electricity.

"I love the espresso. Thanks." And she walked out.

He made her espresso and mentally reviewed the case: present tense _(love)_ versus the conditional _(would love)_; the definite and existing situation _(love)_ versus the improbable or impossible situation _(would love)_.

And the one she had used.

_Love._

He had reason to believe this was not an improbable situation any longer.

* * *

><p>She allowed him inside; he took a slow survey of the room and noted the freshly opened bottle of red on the counter, the half-empty glass in her hand. She was already back and pouring more, handing him a glass as well.<p>

He took it by the stem and looked down, let its aroma waft up and fill his nose, pressed his lips together.

He dumped it out in the kitchen sink, watching her face.

She didn't seem surprised.

He took the bottle by the neck, checked the label to estimate how much he'd owe her, and poured it down the drain.

She took her eyes off his, glanced around the room, then sighed and slid her glass towards him.

It took a moment, all the red washing down the sink, splashing up, choked in the neck of the bottle. When the last of it gushed out and spiralled away, he put the empty bottle on the counter and reached for her glass.

She was meeting his eyes again, something truer in them.

He poured out her glass as well.

She sat very still at the counter and watched his hand; he could see nothing on her face.

He pulled out the black case from the inside pocket of his jacket, left it on the counter for her. A writing pen, a good one he'd bought in Milan one year - ages ago. A ring, a watch, a pen. Lives she'd saved.

"Also, my mother says hello."

He turned and walked out of her apartment, shut the door behind him. Next time, (if that didn't do it and there was a next time - she was stubborn and reckless when it came to her own self), he'd mention her father.

There would be no next time after that. Of that he was certain.


	3. Chapter 3

And all my stumbling phrases,  
>Never amounted to anything worth this feeling. . .<p>

So I was screaming out a language  
>that I never knew existed before.<p>

-All This & Heaven Too, Florence + the Machine

* * *

><p>She had nothing to offer him in return.<p>

* * *

><p>When he entered the bullpen with coffee and made his way over to her desk, she saw the very slight pause in his walk when he noticed.<p>

She was using his pen; it was in her hand.

She took the coffee from him with a smile, the pen now resting against the coffee, symbolism inherent in every gesture even if she didn't want it to be, watched his eyes track her movement, then lift to meet her gaze.

She said nothing, only sipped at the coffee and waited on him.

He sat down heavily, breaking the connection.

Apparently, it was not for today.

* * *

><p>He sat on the couch; she took the stiff-backed armchair and appreciated his silence as she interviewed the witness. The young woman told her story in halting, stilted words, as if the ones that were coming out of her mouth weren't the ones she meant to say. He kept back, unobtrusive in the evening shadows, letting her do all the prodding.<p>

When she had finished taking notes, she capped the pen - his pen - and slid it inside her jacket pocket, touching the outside of the material as if to be certain it was safe.

The witness shook her hand but didn't stand with them, instead watched from hollow eyes as they left.

Back outside her door, he took a long, deep breath and looked over at her.

"This doesn't ever seem to get easier."

She shook her head. "It shouldn't."

* * *

><p>She noticed that he stood off to one side as Lanie indicated the stippling around the victim's gunshot wound.<p>

"Close range," he noted, but did not look.

She turned back to the body, tried to see what it was he would not. Male. Latino. Dark hair shaved close to the head, tattoo on his wrist, another on his upper thigh. Eyes closed, lurid bloom of a gunshot wound on the chest, frozen in place now and blackening. Destroying another tattoo that reached shoulder to shoulder.

She thought she knew. She thanked Lanie, turned back to him to lead him out of there. When the doors swung shut behind them, she reached out and took his arm, keeping him from moving further away.

"That's not me," she said.

He paused, but wouldn't look back. She supposed that was a good rule, generally speaking. Don't look back.

"I know," he said finally.

She had no right to ask for more.

"All right," she said softly instead, releasing his forearm.

At that, he did turn back, his face shadowed by lines. "I know it's not."

"But?"

"But it doesn't mean I don't see it still." He looked away from her, eyes roaming the empty hall. It was cold even out here. "See you."

See her. Dying in the grass.

She had nothing to offer him in return.

* * *

><p>It was blue, the sky with brilliance and the river with monotony - a study in contradictions. The sun warmed her hair, heated her shoulders, as if making up for the weeks of rain. The docks were crowded with pleasure boats, white hulls and towering masts splicing the horizon. He was behind her, the yin of shade to her yang of light.<p>

The takedown was simple. The woman dropped her gun to the wooden dock the moment the detectives confronted her. It was over before it even started. She made sure the boys had the woman under control, watched them begin to walk her back to the car with handcuffs on, meek and weeping.

At her six, he waited; she could feel his tension in the afternoon air.

He was tugging at the vest as if it were suffocating; she laid her hand over his and shook her head. He ceased, but his mouth twisted.

"Not yet. Wait." Because she knew how easily things could get away from them, how the worst happened when they thought it was already over. She holstered her weapon and started back behind the rest.

He sighed and followed her off the dock, through the gate, back to her car. The boys had already loaded the woman into the back of theirs, were pulling out.

She waited until the last car was crunching gravel and disappearing, then she reached out and ripped the velcro at his side, giving him permission. He shrugged out of the bulletproof vest, held it in one hand as she lifted the trunk of the Crown Vic. He tossed it in and rolled his shoulders as if trying to rid himself of that heaviness. His face had not yet lightened though.

"It went down just fine," she said, her chest tight as she looked at the vest he couldn't stand to wear.

"It did."

"She didn't even point the gun at us."

"No."

"So."

He said nothing. His hands were in fists. She bit her lip and glanced towards the water. The line of masts, the bland water, the sun that had come out today. She didn't know what to do when the darkness was his, and not hers.

Well, maybe she did. "Come with me," she said, and unlocked the doors to the car.

"Where we going?"

She said nothing, just smiled at him with soft invitation. He got in the car.

She drove carefully, avoiding the worst of the traffic by taking side streets, glancing over to him every so often to make sure he was still with her.

When she got to the office building, she parked in the underground lot, got out and waited on him. He sat in the car for a second, then got out as well and followed her to the elevator. She pressed six and watched the confusion and curiosity on his face as he tried to solve the mystery.

The doors opened on a bank of elevators; she led him to a hallway and down to the left, passing quiet doors without windows. He was just at her back, warm and present, and she knew the mystery surrounding their location had pulled him partially out of his distress.

She opened the last door on the right before he had a chance to read the name on the plaque, the sense falling over her once again that everything could be handled, could be fixed. That is was going to be okay. Inside the waiting room, she approached the receptionist with a smile.

"Can I see Dr. Burke? It's-"

"Oh, I remember you." The woman checked her computer with a quick glance, as always, so warm and receptive. "He's actually just about to finish. I'm sure he'll talk to you for a few minutes before his next appointment."

"Thank you."

She stepped back and gestured for him to sit down; he waited until she had picked a seat and then sat beside her, his hands between his knees. She relaxed back into the chair, her body automatically at ease, a conditioned response from months now.

"This is your therapist's office," he commented.

"Yes."

He watched her for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the floor.

"He wanted me to bring you in for a session with me. When I thought. . .that I was ready."

His eyes jerked back to hers, disbelief rippling across his face. And honor. Some humility last of all. His eyes filled with something she hadn't wanted to recognize, but now, maybe, she could. Something that overrode the rest of it, made the darkness lift.

Just then, the anteroom door opened and her therapist loomed in the threshold.

He gave her a slow smile. "You've brought Rick Castle with you," his deep voice rumbled.

She glanced over at her partner; his eyes went back and forth between her and Dr. Burke. She realized she was smiling and stood up.

He stood as well, hastily, holding his hand out for Dr. Burke to shake.

"This is Dr. Burke. My therapist," she began.

It was only the start.

* * *

><p>The life she'd saved.<p>

The pen in her hands, heavy and dark, reminded her of him. She kept it on her at all times, had it in her jacket pocket as she dropped him off at his loft. The pen both a weight and a force.

He held open the passenger door and hung on it to lean back into the car. His face was relaxed, the lines had smoothed away.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds of traffic.

She smiled back at him, all of it in her chest, warm and tight and tender.

"You'll come again?"

His sharp intake of air. "Any time."

She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. "Next Monday. Three."

He nodded solemnly, but his mouth was lifting at one side. "I'm there."

* * *

><p>She hesitated outside the elevator door, on his apartment's floor but unable to move. The ring dangled on its chain between her fingers, hitting her thigh.<p>

She had gotten home, stepped into her dark and empty apartment, and had known exactly what it was she needed to do. What she had left.

Now was the time. She made her steps purposeful down the hall to his door, paused a moment to collect herself again. She raised her hand to knock and the door opened, a bustling blur of red hair and smooth skin colliding with her.

Alexis jumped back, hand to her throat, gave a tight laugh. "Oh. Sorry."

"I was just about to knock."

"I'm on my way out. Go on in though; he's. . .in the study." There was a look in his daughter's eyes that cautioned her; something clever and calculating that she'd never seen before.

"Okay. Thanks. Have. . .a good time."

Alexis gave her a four-fingered wave and waited until she stepped inside before shutting the door after her and locking it from the outside.

She took in a deep breath in his entryway, her hand tangled in the chain. She glanced down and toed off her heels, curling her feet against the cold hardwood. She stepped towards the hall that led to his study, soft-footed.

She wouldn't let herself hesitate any longer, walked through his study door, surprised by the darkness inside.

It took a long moment for her to understand what it was she was seeing. He had turned at her entrance, standing before his desk with a tablet in his hand, his face a startled blank.

But she only had eyes for the lit up board behind his desk, the faces so familiar, the details all facts she had memorized, the one case she'd spent the last thirteen years trying to shake. Trying not to carry around with her like scars.

He let out a long, shuddering breath and bowed his head.

"What. . .are you doing?" she asked, stepping further into the room. The darkness closed around her, but it couldn't touch her.

"I. . .don't know what to say." His voice was thin in the air, almost strangled.

"It's my mom's case." The chain and the ring seemed heavy in her hand; she turned her eyes back to him, still not comprehending. He looked guilty, but why?

"It is." He seemed a part of the dim room, like he lived in here. The light she'd seen in his eyes earlier this afternoon had all but faded. It weighed on her, that her mother's case brought him down here with her.

She shrugged. "Okay."

He glanced up and nodded as if to himself. "You want to see?"

No. But. "Okay." She walked further into the room, came to his side in front of the storyboard. Murder board now.

"This is what I've got." He called up each photo - the people connected with her mother's case - one by one, showing her the information he'd typed in below the name, the ways they connected. He was concentrating on Dick Coonan, she saw, and he'd unearthed details she'd never known. He had two blank spots with question marks and she couldn't decipher their meaning in the bigger puzzle.

"Some of this is new," she said, stepping forward to peer at the board. She felt it again, opening up before her, and the chain swung against her leg with her steps. She closed her eyes, ignored the board for a moment. "This isn't what I came here for."

When she turned around, he had already turned it off, was setting aside the tablet that let him control his toy, his hands empty now, his face also curiously empty.

"What did you come for?" he asked. His voice sounded breathless.

It was dark in the room; the city lights from the long windows gave her just enough illumination to see the glint of the chain and the ring in her hand. She lifted it, cradled the ring in her palm.

She had something to offer him now.

He watched her walk back towards him; his fists clenched as if he was suppressing some desire to move.

When she stood toe to toe with him, his warmth radiating out of his skin and into hers, she reached down for his clenched fist and brought it up between them. He relaxed his hand automatically at her touch; she spread his fingers out and dropped her mother's ring onto his palm.

He clutched it, his eyes darting up to hers.

"For the life you saved," she said softly, closing her fingers around his.

"Kate." Her name was breathless on his lips, eternal and imbued with meaning, the sound of hope and disbelief and hope again. It was everything she had been missing.

He opened his hand and stared down at the ring, then used both hands to slip the chain on over his head, the ring falling just below the hollow at the base of his throat. With his head down, he pressed his palm over it, sucking in a breath, closed his fingers around it in a fist.

"Castle." She tasted his name on her tongue, rich and without doubts, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. "You don't have to wear it-"

"No, I do," he interrupted, fingers still clenched around the ring. "This is mine now."

The possession in his tone knocked her breath out, made her stomach clench with awareness. She felt the board behind her, unlit though it was, and wished things might be different, wished the burden was gone.

But at least it was shared.

He brought his free hand to her cheek; she lifted her eyes back to his. He leaned in, breath against her skin, a gentle touch of his lips to her forehead, pressing there, resting. She closed her eyes, soaked it in, brought an arm up around his back in a loose embrace.

Her hand came to his against his chest, her fist wrapped around his fingers, still over the ring.

And then she spoke the words that were her true offering, her real sacrifice, life for a life:

"This is a promise." A breath passed between them. "This is my promise to you. If you'll wait for me."

He let out a shaky sigh. "As long as it takes."


End file.
